


Inspiration

by Towrittealovestory



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Fluff, M/M, SnowBaz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 10:57:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11850153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Towrittealovestory/pseuds/Towrittealovestory
Summary: Baz had tried everything to unblock his mind and write something that wasn't complete shit, no results yet. Key word; yet. In his mind, there was still one thing other than throwing his computer into the ocean.





	Inspiration

Every artist, a painter, writer, sculptor, it doesn’t matter what type knows one thing; inspiration is a bitch. It comes and hits you usually when you can’t create or at three in the morning, and the leaves you with ideas but no way to develop them. Trying to maintain your artistic career on inspiration is unrealistic, and Baz knows it very well. The problem is that he was blocked. If someone was more of an asshole than inspiration it was an artistic block. Every thing he wrote was either to cliché, not original or just straight up shit. It was driving him nuts. 

He had tried everything to unblock his mind, no results yet. Key word; yet. In his mind, there was still one thing other than throwing his computer into the ocean.   
_____

Baz sat down in the shade of a tree. He inhales and exhales deeply. Stare and listen to his surroundings. Nothing but birds and the wind. Nothing but the sky painted on light blue, and the sun shinning bright behind him. The grass was bright green, soft at his touch, and trees that tall and small enough to climb if he wanted. Baz smiled at the peace around him. It was a small hill, he had gone a couple of time when he needed just silence. To breathe out the stress of people.

He put his notebook on his lap, he took out his perfectly sharped pencil. His attention finally on the blank paper. Ok here it goes. 

Seconds pass, and his pencil was tapping on the notebook.

Maybe a man who killed his family.

Tap. No, too cliché.

Maybe a girl on drugs wakes up surrounded by blood and doesn’t remember what happened last night.

Tap. Did she killed her family? 

Maybe a…

Tap. Fuck it.

Fuck this.

Fuck everything. 

The pencil ended up somewhere far Baz. 

Baz rested his head on the tree, with eyes closed, cursing on everything on this earth he could think of. When a not so natural sound alerts him.

Great, people. 

Baz opens his eyes looking at the source of the sound. The weird click, and steps. In front of him, there was a boy. A very pretty boy Baz would say. In front of him a canvas, with something already painted on it. Baz realized the click was probably the easel. 

Baz cursed under his breath, already packing his things to go. Time to time stopping to glare at the guy, who had already started painting. He would pick colors without hesitating, change brushes from the pockets of the cloth on him. Still, Baz could see his white T-shirt was full of paint too. Then the blond boy laughs as Baz was closing his notebook when he accidentally painted his face.

What about a Romeo and Juliet type of story? 

And just like that, as if the lighting had stroke him. Baz was full of words again.

A pair of twisted lovers, who believed to be doom, separated by their destiny, cursed by the world. So death surrounds them.

Then again Baz was twisted, perturbed even. Since he was young and started writing he had heard it. His passion was suspense, death, scary in his best days.   
He would have to edit later but, he felt full, happy. Finally. 

______

His name is Simon. Simon Snow. 

Well, that’s the name he signs the painting at least. It was the sunset from the hill. Baz was close enough a week later when the guy finished it. It looked as real as photo, only that a photo wouldn’t have looked so magical. 

Baz had been coming every day at the hill, same hour every time that week(his inspiration had been in a good streak, and he was going to hold on to it as much as he could) and had seen the same sunset as that guy but through the painting it was like he had missed something from another world. 

Well to be fair, Baz had spent most of the time writing and looking at his muse for inspiration. And maybe he hadn’t lost a beautiful sight. 

______

The next week, Snow(Simon was too intimate for a guy you barely know his name), had sat in the tree in front of Baz. It made writing harder but Baz realized every time he would look at the painter, he was so focused on the notebook, drawing. His blond messy curls would fall in his face, he would frown his eyebrows when he made a mistakes, and bite his pencil while erasing. Sometimes, when Baz felt blessed by the sky, he would see a glance of the boy’s eyes, blue. A deep blue, penetrating blue.

 

The worse was when later after a couple of weeks more between sketches and canvas(smiles and hypnotic blues). In one sketch day, the boy seems to rush, probably coming from somewhere. Not wearing a cloth fill with drops of random paint. Instead, he had a blue pastel jacket, tight jeans and a white T-shirt with big bold black letters “i don’t really care.” Although that wasn’t what left Baz writing an actually passionate, romantic scene. It was the piercing. He had a bloody lip piercing. It made Baz think on how tall the hill actually was and how much would it hurt to fall from there, especially when instead of biting his pencil he would bite his lip.

Baz tried so hard to not look but damn that boy. That boy asked to be looked at. He was a fucking masterpiece from the heavens, it was a sin not look at him. 

He was Baz’s muse. He was a sun of inspiration and fantasies, always shining. And at this point, Baz didn’t exactly too much mind burning.

_____

Baz was late. Too late. 

Simon wasn’t there anymore.

Baz began cursing out of breath from running until he saw that in his usual spot there was a paper posted to the tree. 

His heart was running fast as he walked closer to it. Then stopped. 

It was a portrait, of him. Baz was sitting, resting on nothing, one leg spread and in the other one his notebook. Pencil on one hand, smiling, and the other putting back some hairs out of his ponytail. His face was so detailed. Everything was. 

Just like in the painting, Baz felt that he was missing something, something he failed to see in the mirror if that’s how that pretty boy saw him like.

There was something written on the back. The letter was messy, horrible but in some way fitting for someone like him.

“Dear stranger;  
This is the one I like the most, the least embarrassing too…  
I would have colored it but I feel you are more of a black and white type of guy.   
Yeah…this is my thanks to you.   
I feel inspired when you are around, I want to paint and draw every part of the world close to you…even when I spend a lot of time watching you write(you write right? I wish I knew what do you write).  
This is weird, I’m sorry…I just thought you deserved a thank you…  
So yeah thank you.  
~Simon Snow.

Oh fuck.

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language, I did my best to correct the mistakes but I'm sorry if there is any...I hope you enjoy this anyway. Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
